Something about me has always liked the drama and inconvience of bad weather. The worse the better, really.

Remember that time in the minivan, twenty minutes ago, when we didn't die?

Last words are always harder to remember when no one knows that someone's about to die.

This is it. I can't even not smoke anymore

It turns out that, somehow, there are a tremendous number of things to be optimistic about.

Nostalgia is inevitably a yearning for a past that never existed and when I'm writing, there are no bees to sting me out of my sentimentality. For me at least, fiction is the only way I can even begin to twist my lying memories into something true.

To find Margo Roth Spiegelman, you must become Margo Roth Spiegelman. And I had done many of the things she might have done: I had engineered a most unlikely prom coupling. I had quieted the hounds of caste warfare. I had come to feel comfortable inside the rat-infested haunted house where she did her best thinking. I had seen. I had listened. But I could not yet become the wounded person.